Arthur bought one of those "smart" vacuums last month. You know the ones that look like overpriced dinner plates scuttling around the baseboards. I told him we didn't need it. We have a perfectly good upright Hoover. It plugs into the wall and it actually works.
But he said this new one uses lasers to map the living room. Like we live in a top-secret government facility instead of a three-bedroom house with a brown sofa.
It's supposed to be autonomous. I'm pretty sure autonomous is just tech-speak for doing whatever it wants. Yesterday I found it wedged under the radiator in the guest room again. It just sat there, blinking a sad little red light. A regular vacuum doesn't ask you to crawl under furniture to save it. And it certainly doesn't try to eat the lamp cord. I had to pull a bunch of wire out of its brushes while it beeped at me. Beeping like I was the one who put a cord in its mouth.
The worst part is the noise. When it finally finishes bumping into the doorstop, it goes back to its docking station to empty itself. It sounds exactly like a jet taking off. I don't know about you, but I don't want to feel like I'm standing next to an airplane just because I have a few crumbs on the rug. And it always runs when you least want it to. We were watching the news on Tuesday, right in the middle of the weather report, and the thing just fires up. Roaring down the hallway.
It also throws itself down the basement stairs. The box explicitly promised it had cliff sensors. Apparently, its sensors think a wooden staircase is just a minor suggestion. It tumbled down three steps last week and just lay there upside down.
Arthur insists it's saving us time. I spend twenty minutes a day untangling it and emptying its tiny plastic stomach. It spits out about as much dust as it catches anyway. Honestly I just leave the Hoover out in the hall now, it's easier.
Originally published on Substack.
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